18/04/2014 01:30
Long ago were paths to the past closed,
And what shall I do with past, at all?
What is there? Just washed with blood flat stones,
Or the door, immured in a wall.
Or the echo, that all time me worries,
Tho’ I pray it to be silent, hard…
To this echo happened the same story,
That – to one, I bear in my heart.
